To The Height And Breadth And Depth
by Kay Taylor
Summary: RaistlinCaramon. Pain, and the love between brothers.


It's not about love, and it's not quite about pain. But it hurts, nonetheless, in a way that clenches at Raistlin's chest, squeezing at his heart. Because he knows his brother is dying slowly, one breath at a time, like everyone else - and there's nothing he can do to keep him here. And so he clutches him close, burying his face in the thick brown hair that smells of smoke and campfires, letting it cover his eyes, so he doesn't have to see.  
  
Eventually, the trembling subsides and it's equal parts shame and rage. He's not meant to need like this. The magic was supposed to be everything, bearing him up, filling the gnawing hunger that sits in his soul. But it's not enough, and so he hates it. Hates himself, for being this weak. Hates Caramon, for being there, for seeing this weakness.  
  
For dying.  
  
The first time was the worst. Lying beside a flickering campfire, the chill wind of the North stirring the trees around them, until Raistlin could hear them whispering to each other. And he wrapped the blankets tighter around himself, feeling the chill set into his bones. Caramon's arm wound around his waist, so close that Raistlin could feel the heat of his breath, sending a shiver of warmth down his spine. Raistlin hung there in limbo for hours, feeling the steady rise and fall of Caramon's chest against his back. The heaviness of his breathing, as he lay there in a contentment which - even then - Raistlin had known he'd never find.  
  
It started slowly.  
  
An ache in Raistlin's heart that had nothing to do with the cold, or the damp of the forest floor, or the dull slow throb of seven days' riding. A subtle movement of arms and legs, sleep-heavy limbs. And a murmured "Raist..." as Caramon nuzzled at the back of his neck.  
  
Unconsciously, trying to be as close in sleep as they had been in the cradle.   
  
And, for a few moments, Raistlin didn't feel the howling loneliness. Just the quiet slow movement of two bodies against each other under the starless skies, wrapped in the silence of the woods. Caramon's lips to his neck. Hands wandering, touching. A rhythmic beat of need and want and - what else - the pain is eased for a while.  
  
A while.  
  
Raistlin didn't bother to explain, the next morning - just looked at Caramon with implacable eyes and told him it must have been a dream. He watched Caramon stutter and look away. The first time was the worst, and they didn't mention it for days (weeks). Raistlin was angry at himself, angry at the weakness of his flesh, angry at the woods and the fire and the whispered words that had made him want - need - something as simple as his brother's touch.  
Caramon, caught up in more simple ideas of right and wrong, was bitterly ashamed with himself.  
  
In a way, it's about power, and control. Caramon is so strong, so protective; so many battles have ended with Raistlin wrapped in his brother's arms, gasping for breath, his body wracked by painful spasms. And Caramon will bring him water, smooth his hair, an infinite care in his eyes that hurts so much more than he could ever know - because Raistlin can't live without this. Sometimes Raistlin feels like he's a shadow of his brother, an afterthought. But then, he knows the height and breadth and depth of his brother's need for him, and he clutches the knowledge to his heart, greedily.  
  
Caramon's hair smells of the woods, of days spent on the road, and his lips taste of cinnamon - dark and sweet. He's gentle with his brother, brown eyes earnest with concentration, afraid of hurting him. Raistlin can tell from his movements that he's uncertain, and a part of him rages at Caramon, angry at him for being so - mortal - and attempting to deny him this, a solace in all the blood and weakness that is slowly blossoming in Raistlin's life, fed by his sense of -  
  
- wanting -  
  
- Raistlin's hands scrabble at Caramon's hips, pulling him closer, closing his eyes so tightly that sparks of white dance across the blackness. Trying to block out the knowledge that his brother will die, and that he's weak, so weak. Caramon gasps in response, winding his fingers tightly in Raistlin's hair and murmuring to him, a low steady rumble of need and affection.  
  
The campfire flickers in the darkness.  
  
He knows that there are some ties that only exist between brothers, and that magic can be found there, in the pounding of their shared blood. It's enough to dispel the anger and hatred for a few moments, to lose himself in the whisper of warmth that Caramon breathes into him. Enough for him to forget that Caramon is dying, the brown hair turning silver under Raistlin's hands, the skin cooling as Raistlin's lips move over it. When he closes his eyes, there's nothing but the distant thunder of his brother's heartbeat. And he shivers at the power that gives him, as Caramon reaches out to him in the darkness, the warm liquid feeling of hands on bare skin.  
  
It's not about love, and it's not quite about pain. But as they touch, brought together by the complexity of their need, Raistlin has to close his eyes.  
  
And he knows that, really, it's a little of both.


End file.
